


Glass and Stone

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the host of the Fëanorians seeks refuge in Belegost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass and Stone

In ordinary circumstances, Maedhros – diplomatic and self-effacing to a fault – would have greeted the Casari and begged them, with carefully chosen words, to open the city gates to the remnants of their host. But he hasn’t opened his mouth since the utter route, except to drink, pick and his food, and utter self-abuse, and in any case does not know Khuzdul. And so it falls to Curufin to approach the outer entrance to Belegost, and converse with Azaghâl’s castellan in low and guttural voices.

“They will admit us.” His speech is clipped, reluctant, and he turns away from his brothers soon after.

“Took them long enough.”

“Celegorm! Their king is dead, their army decimated, and yet you dare –“ Caranthir’s face is obscured by the driving rain, but from his tone it must be crimson with rage. Amrod places a tentative hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off, violently, and his younger brother makes no effort to restrain him.

“Are you fucking blind? Their king is dead, but our people are dying. They need healers and rest and a roof over their heads. Grief and decorum won’t bring Azaghâl back to life.”

“Respect and common decency will endear us to her people, then, if we’re being purely practical. Though I don’t see how you can stand to. Tyelko, she died for us.” Caranthir steps closer, his voice strangely soft.

“Because of you, more like. Our own kin lie dead as well, or are you forgetting? And more will join them” – he gestures to Maglor and his bandaged chest – “if they don’t open the damned gate!”

“Brothers, please –“ But none of them can hear Maedhros’s quavering voice above the rain, and Caranthir is suddenly at Celegorm’s throat, knocking him backwards from his horse and into the mud. In a matter of instants, Celegorm has escaped the stranglehold and pinned Caranthir’s arm underneath him. He is about to press the advantage, when a sharp kick separates them.

“The Khazad will bury her tonight. And you fight over her grave like dogs or spoilt children.” There is no emotion in Curufin’s voice, and he turns to enter the silent city.

————————————————— 

“I miss the sky.”

“And I miss passing my days without an omnipresent sense of soul-crushing despair, but you don’t see me complaining.”

“You do nothing but, Tyelko.”

“If you would stop setting our every conversation to appropriately melancholy music, perhaps I would be slightly more favorably disposed.”

Maglor supplies a suitably discordant trill on his harp, but does not answer.

“I am sorry for what I said to Moryo.”

“Tell him that.”

“I will, when he and Curvo get back from the funeral.” Celegorm sets aside the hunting knife he had been tossing from hand to hand, and stares up at the ceiling. “The Casari deserve better than this. We brought this fight to their doorstep. I haven’t beheld a city of such splendor since Tirion. They’ll lose it, because of us.”

“Do try not to flagellate yourself excessively. I already have Maedhros to deal with.”

“That’s rather a harsh way of putting it.”

“Moringotto would not have spared these people if we had remained in Valinor. You know it and I know it. Besides, they are rather capable of defending themselves. Azaghâl walked into the battle with her eyes open.” Celegorm makes a grab for the harp, just as Maglor slips outside his reach. “At least I assume she did, I couldn’t see much beneath that monster of a mask.”

“We fought together.”

“We lost together.”

“Did you think I had forgotten?”

—————————————————————

Curufin notes, with a detached eye, that those priests who attend the body are wearing masks, similar in make to those their kin would don in battle, but carved with different patterns. Certainly, they are artifacts of ritual significance. Perhaps they represent a connection with some storied ancestor? It is consistent with what he knows of the funerary rituals of the Khazad. He thinks for a moment that he will ask Telchar, afterwards, before remembering that the old smith would likely be unwilling to speak. The grief begins to uncoil from the pit of his stomach at the thought, before he can bury it by picking at the unfamiliar patterns of the funeral chants, spoken in what seems to be an archaic dialect.

In the end, it is Telchar who seeks him out. “She should have kept the dragon-helm.”

What can he say? That if Azaghâl had not given away the helm as a gesture, their alliance might never have been contracted? It is impossible to know, and Telchar, of course, is acquainted with the particulars. “Yes.”

“It was my finest work. I made it for her. To keep her safe.”

“I understand, how painful it can be. To see the work of your hands and your mind bent to foul purposes.” He hand clench at his sides. “And I am sorry.”

“You had nothing to do with the matter – nor I with your own losses.”

“I was referring to Angrist.”

Telchar sighs. “Come. Sit.”

And he kneels, so that his head is level with the other smiths.

“I imagine that you did not lose the knife of your own volition, and there are such enchantments on it that it will be of little use to your thieves. My friend is dead. I’m not grieving over a dagger.”

“The dragon-helm, Angrist, my gifts to you – these all are items of some consequence, insofar as they are the physical manifestation of the friendship between our peoples. We are here to bury that trust, to both our losses.”

“Don’t … don’t say that. I’ve been told I am too absorbed in my works. And it’s hard not to think, even now, of what could have been, had things been otherwise. It was not meant for Men or Elves, the helm. I told her not to trust them. Dangerous. Never trust someone you can’t look straight in the eye, I said, and theirs are far too bright for comfort.”

Curufin nods stiffly. “Indeed.”

“Oh, don’t twist your hands like that. I don’t think of you as an elf. More of an unusually elongated and inexplicably hairless member of the tribe.” 

They are silent, for a long moment, until Telchar speaks again. “Didn’t think I would ever see you without words.”

“I … thank you.”

“I do not say this lightly.”

“I know.” The dirge increases in pitch. The stars are risen now, and reflected in the glassy water of the lake.

“She was right about one thing. I never told her when she was alive – I never knew, myself. I wish I had, now. Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar do not have to stand alone. We do not have to give up what she built.”

“You think our alliance will survive the gathering dark?” Curufinwë gestures to the shadow of the mountain behind them. 

“It’s always dark down here. And I see no reason why it should not. If you are truly sorry for her death, Prince of the Bright-eyed People, do not despair of this. And, O, remember us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Casari and Khazad are the Quenya and Khuzdul words for Dwarves, respectively. Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar are the Khuzdul names of Belegost and Nogrod.


End file.
